


The disappearance

by Askell



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Complex relationships, Dark Comedy, F/F, Flirting, Friendship, Hatred, Headcanon, Humor, M/M, Magic, Mistaken Identity, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV John Constantine, Points of View, Rituals, Secret Identity, Serious Injuries, Sleep Deprivation, They're all lesbians, Unrequited Love, Vampires, Whump, Witches, Zombies, disaster bi, many female OCs, or at least john thinks it's a zombie, so many headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: John is blackmailed into looking for a runaway apprentice. If only it were that simple.





	The disappearance

Musicals. Oh sure even in this wretched place they had some, to the delight of no John Constantine as he still borrowed Sweeney Todd’s words. “There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit, and the vermin of the world inhabit it, and it’s morals aren’t worth what a pig could spit, and it goes by the name of…” _Gotham_. 

Hell must’ve done a free trial version in this place for the very fine elite of its future residents. It was barely above a motel in purgatory where flyers advertising good-doing had long been covered under stains of unknown nature. High up in the sky like a diamond shining at the throat of a whore, the sun looked obscene. As blue as could be when they drink from the cup of uncontrolled industrialization, the small patch of sky did not manage to sell the freedom they usually did. Under the many, corroded, watchful eyes of an army of gargoyles, Constantine readjusted his coat as he entered a dirty grey tower. 

Immediately after the heavy armored glass door closed behind him, the constant waves of cars dwindled, leaving the place’s sinister nature to crawl up to his ears. Creaking, howling, screaming, the spiral stairs protested every single one of his steps. He now estimated about as much dust on the grey carpeting as there was in his lungs, the stench of stale piss a nice gift on the house. Careful not to stab his foot on used needles, he kept climbing.

Seeing auras had never been his thing, really. A talent developed out of need, but far from natural. Still the same struggle as ever to get the magic to do its thing, to flow to his eyes, to his energy cores or whatever kids inappropriately call them these days. It’s not so different from starting an old diesel car in winter. Sometimes it will spark to life like Lazarus coming back from the dead; sometimes it will just grumble and cough until it finally decides to take the day off. 

It didn’t seem to be a day off, yet aside from the sad remains of what used to be the clean step of the 6th floor, a great deal of absolutely nothing came to his senses. No spark of forgotten memories, no long gone smells still hanging in the air, no laughter or screams bouncing off phantom walls. Nothing. Even the veneer of the city’s crass history coloring the city’s energy lines in bright purple and green streams had retreated from apartment 413. 

Stepping unceremoniously on the incongruous cat-themed doormat, Constantine pushed the door, expecting it already busted or ready to. But it held steady and solid, refusing to give in even to some trick he didn’t remember if he learned from his sister or an Amazonian shaman. It was with great shame and annoyance that the Hellblazer had to resort to the ancient art of pressing the doorbell. 

A grating buzz echoed inside the apartment, immediately followed by the sound of broken glass. Heavy steps came close and finally the door opened to reveal the imposing shape of a pissed off man. Hadn’t it been for the dull red bat and iconic crimson headgear, John would have thought karma finally caught up to him. Tough, it still didn’t mean the two black holes of the shotgun pointing at his head were any reassurance.

“Now mate, I’m sure there’s been a mistake…” He raised his hands, a small knife cleverly hidden at the back of his hand, ready to be revealed like the plastic rose of a cheap magician. Not that it would matter against what could’ve been a hunting rifle, for all he knew about these damned weapons.

“Who’re you,” the infamous Red Hood grunted, hands completely still as they held the gun.

“Not an enemy, not armed and my name won’t mean anything to y- ow! Okay, okay. Constantine. Name’s John Constantine you trigger-happy prick.”

There must have been something like a scoff, which the voice modifier of the helmet turned into a static buzz. At last, the nuzzle was pointed off of John’s face, which he cared very much about keeping as whole as possible until this whole mess was over. It was all too easy to follow the line of the gun as it came to hover just above those thighs dreams were made of. 

“Eyes over here, Hellblazer. Do not act surprised, and drop the blade. Wouldn’t even call that a knife. You intend to do needlework with it?”

“Awfully chatty for a Gothamite aren’t you? Looking for tea and biscuits perhaps?” John said as he lowered his hands, slowly reaching for his cigarettes. The blade stayed in his sleeve. “I’m gutted to have to leave you before we can catch up to the good old days, but see, us grownups have those things called jobs to do-” he paused to light and inhale the first of a long series of cancer sticks for the day, “-you teeny-boppers wouldn’t know about.”

Another of those noises oddly reminding him of broken 90’s McDonald’s toys answered his tirade, the slight tilt of Red Hood’s emotionless mask conveying something like amusement. Last time he saw the kid, he still wore scaly panties and jittered like a pup with bowel issues. In gods know how many years, the kid had gained a good head and a half on him, as well as half a shoulder in width. Just like his papa, John snickered internally, certain that the remark would get him a busted jaw.

“Dear old pal,” Hood said in an insulting parody of John’s accent, “at least do me the pleasure of telling me why you visited?”

“_Brujas’_ business,” he shrugged. “Nothing to do with your menagerie of loons and wazzocks. So far it’s out of my domain of competence so I’ll tell them that and leave before Thursday morning.”

Hood seemed to consider -and again with that ridiculous red plastic face it was bloody hard to guess-, and conclude that John was telling the truth. Why would he lie about coming to this piss-scented hellhole voluntarily, where even dogs couldn’t be trusted, was beyond him. It must’ve shown in the raise of his eyebrow, because Red Hood strapped the -handgun? shotgun?- long black gun to his back. 

“You wouldn’t know anything about someone purposefully faking medical examinations or documents, would you?” 

“Not in this part of the US, no. Plenty overseas, in Shanghai, if you guys are looking for recommendations, though. Why? Can’t get accepted in the local baseball team off the bat?”

This time, there was definitely something like a laugh from Red Hood since his shoulder twitched forward and he made an aborted gesture to cover his mouth. Interesting.

“Awful pun, Constantine. You should teach B how to do that, enlighten him on the way of being a forty-years-old White father of six. Seven. Lost count.”

“Can’t promise anything, kid.” John allowed himself to relax a bit. “Heard anything about magic voids, or theft, or just magic being weird in the city?”

Hood shrugged, his whole mass moving silently despite the hodgepodge of material clinging to it. The bloke could open his very own armory on the side of the street with all that mess. It made John feel like there was a metaphor about size related to their respective choice of weapons he preferred to ignore. Didn’t need any reminders that American food was going to take its glucose-saturated toll on his hips by the end of the week, while the kid would remain impossibly fit.

They parted with some more banter. Hood was one of the few bats John had ever seen actually going down the stairs. No wonder Bruce viewed him as the rebellious child. What a punk. 

Finally alone inside the mildewy condo, John forced his energy to converge to his eyes, to flood his senses. Fresh and powerful, Red Hood’s elusive aura still hovered in the air, planting pins and needles in his forearms before dissipating. He rubbed at his right-hand wrist pensively, not yet feeling any pain there. Aside from that distraction, it was a great deal of nothing. 

Pacing around, he avoided the rancid kitchen where a few stray roaches feasted. There were dishes on the drying rack, but not in the sink, neatly piled in contrast to the broken pot on the ground. Whoever they were, the victim had not seen their aggressor until it was too late. A small, unexpectedly clean window allowed some natural light to come in, but showed a dull brick wall within hand’s reach. Since it was unlocked, there were some chances the culprit had escaped from there but still, no traces. 

As John progressed to the bed area, rather quickly given the size of the condo, he was able to assume the gender of the victim. Female, if the silver brush on the bedside table was any indicator. The only indicator, in fact, other than the stereotypical personal hygiene. Holding it in his gloved hand, Constantine tried his hardest to pick up anything from it.

Silver naturally held magic, like gold or steel. Unlike copper, which didn’t hold _human_ magic. Hairs, nail clips, teeth, all of those also hoarded psychic energy. As did blood. Old items, family heirlooms ended up accumulating some form of magic born from memories, bloodlines and history. In all logic, the early 20th-century silver hairbrush holding a few blonde hair should have ‘talked’, even to a poor psychometrist like him. 

Pressing the handle to the tender skin of his wrist, murmuring a few amplifying prayers, John had to admit defeat. Who or whatever had been there, whatever they had done, wherever the victim went, if victim there was, only detectives could guess. There was nothing else he could do besides carrying on with his plan to go back home. 

That is, until John noticed the thickness of the smoke surrounding him. It didn’t smell like he had dropped his cigarette while focusing for too long. It still held at the corner of his mouth, extinguished as he forgot to inhale it. Thick ropes of chemically-scented smoke quickly filled the ceiling and started to creep downward. 

Pocketing the brush, he rushed to the window. It was a tight fit, one Hood would have definitely not passed under pressure like John was. Or maybe he would have. Those kids were made of jelly, he swore. Still, he feared his shoulders might have lacked the flexibility until they finally went through, using the brick wall as support. Then, as he felt a cough surging from the bottom of his used lungs, he made the mistake of looking down. 

A lot of people assumed they were not afraid of heights because they took the plane once or twice. John had always thought the tiny fields and houses and rivers looked fake from above, too small to be real and therefore not scary at all. It was another thing entirely to be hanging by the tip of the fingers to a slippery formation of bricks, body half-arched out of the now smoke-filled apartment with both hips still stuck inside. Under him were six floors of occasional metal bars, anti-pigeon devices (read: metal bars) on tiny windows and one big dumpster filled with stone debris from some sewer rectification. 

No time to think, as the imperative of getting either up or down was forced on him by the sound and vibration of an explosion somewhere in the building. 

“Fuck,” he eloquently commented as he painfully hauled the rest of himself to sit on the ledge. “Now what.”

First, he rationalized, his legs had to get out as well. With a great deal of groans and coughs, he managed to extract one before finding himself uncomfortably straddling the wooden edge of the window. It dug in his groin something fierce, even when he tried to put more weight on his arm that was against the brick wall. Bloody thing was just far enough to burn his rarely used muscles. Being no caped acrobat, not even a really fit bloke, John was sweating bullets by the time he managed to get his whole self out.

Sitting on the window, the smoke barbecuing his senses, Constantine decided to climb down. Up was above his capabilities. Besides, the thick grey clouds rolling above were deterrent to any overestimation of his strength. Reaching into his coat, his fingers blindly found some cloves, a chipped tiger’s eye and a crumpled piece of paper he knew was covered in incantations.

Threatening his poor balance, John brought both hands together around the items and hacked some magic out of his lungs. Soon enough, his nails on both hands were long, dark and crooked. Hopefully solid enough to ensure a safer climb. The spell would be a bitch to reverse. Streaming curses as he progressed downward, John did his best to avoid a Final Destination worthy death, and safely get to the ground. 

One step at a time. The tender skin of his digits were ripped against the cold bricks, leaving small blood stains. Breathing was a chore. Once, his shoe slipped. Slowing his fall, iron bars cracked his ribs, and chased the air from his lungs. Four more floors to go. Feet dangling in the air, he found himself unable to reach the walls again as the rusty tube broke in half. Three more floors to go. 

It tore his shoulders to catch a window’s edge. A pot of dried flowers was upturned when his fingers landed on the plate under it, covering him in dirt. It shattered with a loud crack right on his forehead. Wisps of light danced behind his eyes, the pain pulsating like a caged bird all over his head. 

Held by only one hand, magic claws digging into the damp wood, John saw the corners of his sight reduce drastically. The thing with magic that Hollywood ignores, is that it doesn’t just exist until summoned. It’s almost akin to courting, convincing the prick to do the bidding of the caster. But for that whole process to happen, it needs to flow, to be present at the very least. Weak and fluctuating like magic was around the building, it was no easy task. 

The rotten edge suddenly crumbled under his fingers. 

“Ah, bollocks,” he cursed, falling ass first.

He first hit his back on a pipe that crossed between buildings, feeling it bend under his weight. It propelled him forward into a wall, on which he bounced with a loud thump. All the air was chased from his thorax, as well as some bile and less pleasant things. John didn’t have the time to recover, his long limbs tangled in drying strings, damp clothes momentarily blocking his sight. After a few moments of thinking he was stuck there, and not falling, the whiplike snap of the improvised spiderweb slaughtered his hopes. 

Something hard and sharp swatted the back of his neck, tearing a cry of pain from his abused throat. Violent flashes of light slashed behind his closed lids. He barely registered the burn in his cheek as it was abused against an abrasive surface before darkness claimed his mind for a few blessed instants.

Things however never worked like in the movies, and he found himself unable to give up. Dropped on the unforgiving concrete like a fresh lump of shit. Limbs sore, possibly broken. Rolling on his back, impossible. 

Though he could not turn his head to see it, no doubt the narrow slice of sky above had been claimed by fumes all the same. It surely smelled like it, above the delicate scent one could imagine emanated from a shady alley in downtown Gotham. 

As if whatever ancient deities ruling over that heathen place had been especially fond of his misery, cold drops started falling on him. At least it washed away some of the less pleasant fluids. The familiar coppery tang invading his mouth, as well as the insane throb in his jaw informed him one of his teeth had come loose. 

John ignored how much time he spent there, breathing as slowly as possible, mind completely blank. At some point, he figured he was supposed to know at least some magic. A tricky feat given he had no ingredients, half a functioning hand, and a mouth full of blood, but figures. He’d been through worse. 

Tracing symbols in the rain with his own blood with what he was almost entirely sure was a busted wrist represented quite the challenge, he had to admit. The weak pulse of almost washed up runes still served its purpose. In terms of relief, on a scale from one to a hot cup of tea in winter, the symbols gave him the equivalent of a shot of opium. 

It may have been a bad idea. Giggling like a lunatic, poking his purple wrist and finding the pain hilarious, he barely registered the large figure marching toward him. Halfway through the fog of the spell, John was hauled on a shoulder like a bag of concrete. Contradictory information -the warmth of the body, the bliss of magic, ice-cold rain and unbearable pain- finally got to him in the shape of one long-expected wave of lethargy.

The next time he woke up, Constantine was alone.

Past the insane pounding of blood rushing back to his head and the psychedelic flashes of magic withdrawal, what he could see of the room was not any reassuring. Grey walls adorned with large patches of humidity and mildew, vermin running freely up and down, and dull, cracked windows casting a sickly yellow light inside. 

To his right, a plastic bottle full of clear liquid rested on a small tray, along with medical supplies and painkillers. With all the grace and speed of a legless turtle, John managed to snatch an expertly bandaged hand from under his survival blanket and seep some of the water. Thankfully, it was just water. The last thing he needed was more hallucinogenic substances. 

His wounds had been tended to, though it was more of a military work than a physician’s. No particular care had been given to make him feel good, just to make sure nothing would get infected or damaged beyond repair. Given his apparent abandonment in a less than homely place, John found himself muttering some incantations to accelerate the regeneration. 

His left wrist still bore ugly shades of black, purple and yellow as he left the room a few hours later. A well-deserved shower at his hotel later in the evening revealed similar colors blooming all over his torso underneath the carved symbols and tattoos, spreading all over his legs in random clusters. Wrapped up in awkward bandages, pale like the dead, limping pathetically to his bed, John would have made Imohtep jealous. 

The burning need for a cigarette clung at the back of his oesophagus, invading his nose, teasing his tongue. Some strong alcohol wouldn’t have been unwelcomed either. He settled for more magic. Most days, using it felt as normal as blowing his nose - a necessary, not very dignified act which brought satisfaction, but not to the point of needing it. 

Young witches and wizards delved in it like it was cough syrup, a cheap and easy way to feel powerful nevermind the consequences. Old ones were no better -feeding on it, clutching to it, refusing to let it go or recognize the damages which inevitably came with it. John was neither young nor old, but a fool all the same.

A relatively intact hand hovering over his patchwork of bruises, he chanted in a broken Mandarin for his bones to ‘sew back together with the maiden’s hand, to grow strong with the father’s hand, to be blessed by the grace of the Emperor under the Sky’. Technically it was supposed to be used on agricultural tools, but he’d discovered it worked all the same on bones. As long as the target was solid. For some reason, it tended to make liquids boil when aimed unspecifically. 

Gruesome, at the very best.

A flat pillow pressed against his chest, John closed his eyes with a deep sigh. His limbs were covered in large bruises but functional again, though his wrist felt tighter than before. Weariness seeped in the deepest of his core. Just as dizziness started to morph into authentic -if cheap- sleep, the phone rang. It was a grating tune which echoed through his skull with an off-brand version of divine fury. He never found out how to change it.

“H’lo…” he groaned, not hiding his annoyance in the slightest.

At the other end of the line, a teeth-rotting sweet voice answered with all the self-importance and condescension of an age-old _bruja_. He could see the glint of her abundant fake jewelry in his mind. It almost felt like he could smell her head-spinning perfume choking him in spite of the distance.

“_Mijo…_” she started, her phony tone dripping with honey. “My dear Constantine, have you found it?”

There was no mistaking the block of ice she dropped on that last word.

“No. Found the flat, but ‘t was empty.”

“You surely know the terms of our… arrangement are on a time limit.”

“No way, I would’ve never guessed!” John snarked, summoning the remaining shreds of his wits. “Like I said, she wasn’t there. I think she found a way to nullify energy around her place, I couldn’t sense anything. If you knew anything about it, how much would it cost me?”

“Ever the realist, my dear. Alas, I don’t know anything about that beyond the basics. As you do.” Some muffled cries echoed in the background, probably belonging to a chicken. He hoped, at least. 

He grunted his ascent. Of course he knew it was possible, just above most witches’ capacities. From what very few information he managed to tear off the old hag, ‘it’ was too young to have that kind of knowledge. Yet, it wasn’t impossible. The line died without so much as a warning. Face buried in his pillow, John sighed once more.

Bloody hairbrush. He should have left it where it was. Should have ignored everything and everyone, declared the case impossible and ignored it all. Blessed ignorance, a rare treat he longed to taste again. Radiating bluish light, a ghost waited impatiently by his bed. They were barely visible, so transparent they had more in common with fogged up glass than with anything else. A distant memory, already fading. 

A fucking annoyance that’s what they were.

John sensed their attempt to reach out to him, to touch what they could no longer brush. Closing his eyes, he finally slipped into Morpheus’ arms. 

***

Tugging his hand and exhausted body out of bed at ungodly hours, insomnia guided John toward the nearest 24/7 coffee shop. For a moment he had to remember that, unlike in Amsterdam, American coffee shop sold only that. A shame. Some puffs of the green stuff may have been just what he needed, at the moment. He settled for the nearest thing to mana elixir known to man -coffee. 

A nondescript student held the bar like a fisherman on oily sea. Which is distractedly and with a mixture of longing and despair on her face. John thought she was sleeping with her eyes open. He felt like doing that as well. Asking her to pour him her darkest cup was nothing too different from necromancy, and she did his nefarious bidding without a single word. He tipped her generously.

John sat at a small table near the bay windows, to watch the sun and city rise. The same chaotic forces ever ruling his life had placed a well-worn, dog-eared copy of Fight Club on the chair. Split personality aside, as far as he was aware at least, John understood what Tyler Durden meant. He had mixed opinions on the story, but his younger hippie self had hated it. His twenty-something jerk self had idolized it. His thirty-five-years-old self thought it was one of the most dramatic gay rom-coms he’s ever read. 

One of the things that hit home though, was the description of insomnia. It may have been ten in the morning, ten in the evening; if not for the mural clock ticking steadily to four o'clock in the morning, he wouldn’t have guessed. Rogue stars shone ahead, giving the finger to the coppery haze of light pollution. 

“Interesting read. Like it?” came a deep, youthful voice over his shoulder.

Whipping his head around had John’s neck crack loudly, to discover a man barely out of his teenage years. His eyes, however, bore the methusalean gravitas of one who stared at death in the eyes. They buzzed with a corrupted kind of magic, of the likes which John knew all too well from his own mirror. The man’s aura was infected with infected green waves veined with sickly browns and yellows, so potent no focus was needed to sense it. 

The colors of a dying man. Of a dead man.

Yet, here he stood with rosy cheeks and a steady pulse moving on his neck. 

“I can’t recall, mate. Read it when I was about your age.”

Where he expected offense, perhaps a joke, the young man kept scrutinizing his face as if searching for something. Aside from smudged tobacco dust on his collar and infinite weariness, John doubted the man would find anything noteworthy. 

“Can’t sleep either,” the young man changed subject, answering John’s silent question.

“And how would you know that? Are ye a very observant chap or some stalking wanker?” Constantine winced internally at his own tone and thickening accent. Soon he would start talking about football and everybody would be sorry he did.

“You don’t-” the man raised an eyebrow, dragging a chair to invite himself at John’s table unprompted. “For now, let’s just say I’m observant, old man.”

“Well fuck you too, chrissake.” John sipped some of his coffee, unpleasantly surprised to find it watered down the way Americans liked. 

His eyes were instinctively attracted to the quick move of the young man’s jaw as an attractive smirk cut through it like sun through storm. Hadn’t it been for the proof that he was a zombie, he would’ve made quite the fine fellow to look at, now that John got a closer view. 

Grinning at a joke only he understood, the young man kept talking. “Come here often?”

“Why don’t ye cut through the bull and tell me why your master sent you to me?”

“Got none. I swear, I only came to you because it’s rare seeing grown men retain the gold of childhood in their hair.”

“You talked to me because I’m blonde? Are you alright in the head, lad?”

That smirk must have been a weapon of mass destruction. What was the UN doing, letting a single man wield it freely like that. John schooled his face into a grimace, trying not to choke on his cup. 

“That, and the pleasure of conversing with someone holding a book,” continued the deranged man in a smooth tone. Still, remained on his face the barely-holding-it air of a prankster waiting for the grand reveal.

“It’s fuck o’clock in the mornin’. Piss off.” 

“Alright, alright,” the man said in that distinct Gothamite accent which made ‘a’ and ‘i’ sounds almost one and the same. “Didn’t mean to offend you, Constantine. Just came to apologize, actually.”

“So this is business,” he pointlessly observed. Of course it was. It always was. John’s mood turned sourer as once more, attractive blokes talking to him were only interested in what he could do for them.

“It may be depending on your answers. For obvious reasons I can’t access the register of magic users at the moment, and I know how painfully incomplete it is. Keep in mind that I don’t know anything beyond the basics. How hard would it be to force people to sign stuff?”

“Don’t even need magic for that mate,” he answered truthfully, already starting to guess what kind of affiliation the undead might have. “Seduction, bribery, extortion, threats… your master would know everything about it, mister zombie.”

At last, the mask dropped. Green like old bruises, the zombie’s eyes rolled in his skull and his lips fell into a tight line. Anger, control. 

“Can’t you be at least a little cooperative for fuck’s sake? I’m trying to save lives here.”

“Mark my words, angel face: Not. My. Problem.”

“This blood is on your hand then, Constantine,” the man all but barked, making the waitress jump behind her counter. 

He left briskly, leaving a distinct smell of tobacco and gunpowder hanging in the air for a second. Then it, too, was gone. Sweet, yet violent smells, and none of the rot one could expect from a slave of the dark arts. 

A rabid mouse dashed in the wheel of John’s brains, scratching every single shred of memory and information to find out what the hell just happened. A reanimated corpse with blood running in his veins. A free zombie acting on his own will. An undead who knew him by name, by reputation, and it seemed, personally. A woman vanished without a trace. Magic, evaporated. Runaway students.

The mouse stopped, sniffing a lead. Somehow, everything was linked. Or maybe the mouse was just mad. 

John decided to pay visit to an old friend. 

****

The fucking condo was empty. Another dead lead. Whatever lunatic had set it on fire only managed to convince Jason he was on the right track. May have been the nurse herself. May have been her boss, if she had one. Too many loose threads. 

His knuckles still ached from the first time he heard about the incident. One instance had turned out to be many, covered up by scaredy paperscribblers. Like an idiot, he hadn’t managed to keep control of his fist, as the fucking thing shattered the tiles next to the head of a crying secretary. The gloves had absorbed most of the impact. It still looked red and bruised ten days later. 

Jason stood over the edge of the roof, like some sort of epiphany was gonna fall on the corner of his head. A current buzzed under his skin. Gotham was restless. Something had the centuries-old hag run for her jewels. With no rain in ages, she smelled even worse than usual. Her carcass shook with something like fear, madness and outdated perfume.

Or Jason was just projecting, standing on his gargoyle like the last of the dumbasses around there. A soft sound had him consider a quick jump over the edge. He stood straighter instead, arms crossed in a defensive pose. 

“Fuck off, Dick.”

“Always a pleasure to meet you,” the Golden Boy smiled with that air of airheadedness which characterized his whole person. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

Switching on the safety of his gun with his thumb, Jason pointed the barrel at the hollow of his own throat.

“If you plan to kill me with politeness, I’ll end things right here right now.”

“Ha, ha. Always the jester aren’t you Babybird?”

“I was having a fine evening of brooding and self-loathing before you barged in, go fuck yourself so I can go back to that?”

“Well, you know how flexible I am, that’s entirely feasib-”

Jason groaned aloud, sticking his tongue out in spite of the helmet hiding his face. Self-satisfied and heart-clenching, the smile on Nightwing’s face showed great deals of pride in embarrassing him. His hair, getting longer and longer each time, fluttered softly in the fetid wind. 

“Aside from putting awful images in my mind, why are you here?” he finally caved in and asked.

The strength with which that smile fell reminded him of shattering icebergs. His heart crashed with about as much thunder as the floating mountains as the distance was suddenly reduced between them to a dart gun, pressed in a weaker part of his armor.

“I don’t want to use that on you, but I’ll do it if you refuse,” came the warning in a mint-scented breath. ‘Hero breath’ as the other assholes insisted. It hid the occasional scent of stale blood. 

“For the last time. Before I punch your nose back in your skull. What do you want from me?”

“Many things,” Dick whispered as if to himself. “But for now I need you to hand over the case to us.”

The dart gun was karate-chopped down, spewing a stray bolt uselessly into the concrete. Keeping hold on Nightwing’s arm, Jason kicked it up. Turned his back so that he was curled against the blue man’s chest in a parody of embrace. Kicked his heel back between his legs. Tugged at the blue-striped hand forward. Brought Dick down.. Found the dart as it clattered nearby. Struck it in his momentarily exposed neck. 

“You’re getting old, birdie,” Jason gloated, perfectly aware that Dick could have struck back anytime he wanted. Batman was probably nearby, or one member of his menagerie of orphans. 

He could have kneeled next to the softly snoring man. Could have laid him on his side to prevent him from choking on his own tongue. Could have kissed his forehead. Wanted to. 

The familiar pull of the grappling gun propelled him away. To the shadows where he belonged. Or at least to the closest Bat-burger. Machines had replaced more than half of the college students working there, he noticed. Having done his fair share of odd jobs, he sympathized. Robots would probably replace everyone, at some point. Tim would have an orgasm if they did. Fucking nerd.

Eating junk food, chain-smoking, drinking like a lonesome cowboy was his way of giving the finger to life. That, and pushing every other sack of shit toward their premature end. As he munched on radioactive-blue Mister Fries, Jason mentally laid all the information he had. 

A series of faulted diagnosis at Arkham. A disappeared nurse who didn’t exist in his databases. Constantine, of all people, in Gotham. 

Memories of tattooed flesh crossed with small scars flashed before his eyes. Occult symbols, he guessed, though none of them held any significance to him. If the mage had a shred of self-preservation, they would still be covered in bandages. A small grin crossed his focused features. Their last encounter had been absurd in every way possible. If they had to work together more extensively, Jason considered revealing his real identity to Constantine instead of playing with it. On the other hand, he was an asshole and he’d been called a zombie. 

Jason wasn’t a man to refuse petty vengeance. 

He wasn’t the only one, it seemed, as Damian sat down gracefully in front of him. One of those green-gloved mini-hands stole of of his Victor Fries before he could slap it away. None of the patrons seemed perturbed by the fact that two caped idiots were sitting among them. Cosplayers were a plague of the modern era. However, there was no mistaking that baby chin or those weird mannerisms.

“Is it my birthday and no one told me, or something?” he sighed, knowing that Robins were like matryoshka dolls. Take one down there’s a smaller one behind. 

A disdainful click of tongue. “Nightwing failed to convince you and I am supposed to carry on his mission. Accept and I will pay for your meal.”

“Y’all really think I’m dumb as well as destitute.”

“Your words, not mine. Be aware that I could not care less whether or not you give up on your mission, but Father does.” The little mynx stole another fry. “We are also wondering what is your involvement with the Magus of London. Though I guess you will not s-”

“We’re dating. Fucking in the shower and bringing each other breakfast in the morning, the whole shebang. Tell daddy I also call John daddy.”

Even the bright green domino mask didn’t manage to hide the profound disgust on Damian’s face. 

“Must you always be so crass,” he muttered, rising up to leave him alone at last. A nasty smirk stretched on his lips. “Is Nightwing aware?” 

“Guess that leaves more of him for you, in that case,” Jason answered with matching pettiness. 

Damian’s silence was all he needed to confirm his doubts. Watching the teenager leave the Bat-burger with a stiff step, Jason wondered if there was a single person in existence who wasn’t in love with Dick Grayson. Maybe Bruce. Awful images came to his mind. So bad he didn’t even notice the woman staring at him with immense pity in her eyes. 

She would help him. She had to. 

***

Thin ropes of transparent, lemon-scented mist rose up from the warm mug in his hands. At last, Constantine had managed to find one American able to make decent tea. Tacky prestidigitation tools hung all over the apartment, from telescopic wands to a single white rabbit munching salad in its cage. Colorful posters and pictures covered what little space was left on the walls. Among which a smiling Bruce Wayne, which made him almost unrecognizable at first glance.

Balancing her own mug on one knee and two heavy leather-bound books on her other thighs, Zatanna frowned her pretty face over the arcane scriptures. Her wiccan-themed pajamas and plush unicorn slippers with printed moon phases added to the strange, but comfortable feeling of the room. Tugging one silky black strand of hair behind her ear, she rose up triumphantly, managing not to knock off her tea in the process. 

“So far, I can confirm you that there is no known prophecy involved. As for the magic voids, it’s possible but the last recording dates from 1743 in Scotland. Something about transition stones. Was there anything druidic on the scene?”

“Well, there’s always the chance of it being in the sewers,” she continued after Constantine shook his head. “I don’t think the ‘zombie’ you told me about can be related, though. It’s not within their usual action range to proactively change magic paths.”

“Thanks Zee.” He stood and paced in aborted circles, thumb tracing half-symbols on the hot ceramic of his mug. “There has to be a link, if not an occult one.”

A cute scoff echoed from where Zatanna still sat like a peaceful cat. He turned around with a raised eyebrow, to which she answered with a knowing smile, as if laughing to a private joke he did not understand.

“You sound like Dick. Not the same type of handsome, but a touch of that, too.”

“What is it with you kids being all flirty with me out of the blue?” he grinned back, sitting back on her plush couch. “Even hookers wouldn’t give me the time of day in London. Had I known, I would’ve come here sooner.”

Her laugh was brief and light, the light blue chirp of a small bird. 

“You ooze magic, _mate_.” Zatanna said, copying his accent. “I thought it was intentional.” She cast a quick glance out the window. “But then again it might be the full moon.”

She nodded sympathetically at his exaggerated sigh. All human beings were subject to random ups and downs, energetically speaking, which were sometime misinterpreted as sugar cravings or feeling uncharacteristically good about their day. Magic users experienced these as well, though with more significant side-effects such as not being able to perform even the easiest spells, or on the contrary attracting about every creature from this dimension and beyond. Celestial and geological events tended to affect them as well. Standing next to the boiling depths of a volcano would have John radiate with power, but Gotham was very much a city of water. From its infested underground bowels to its dark locks of kelp gently moving with the tide, the crone was a most appalling siren. 

“Maybe,” he conceded, once again standing up and pacing among the brightly colored accessories, idly touching them as if they would bring him the resolution he needed. 

They stayed silent for a while, each lost in their own minds. 

“Have you considered asking Jason, John?”

“Why on Earth would I do that?” he replied, with a harder touch of annoyance than planned. 

Zatanna rose her hands defensively, an unconscious reminder of the importance of words for the prestidigitator. “Sorry, I didn’t know you two had such a tense relationship.”

“No it’s- I haven’t seen him in ages.” He ruffled his hair, looking away from the icicle blue of her eyes. “Besides I really don’t see how he might be useful to my case. To which I must return, as pleasant as the company is. See you around, love.”

Later facing the cold of night once again, with barely more than a soggy trench coat to shield him from the nascent winter, John missed the vibration of his phone. Zatanna put hers away, hoping he had not misinterpreted her advice. Jason was a very common name. The last thing she needed was another falling out with the Bats. 

How would Constantine find the man, anyway? He guessed the former Robin had reformed, since he hadn’t heard of him in at the very least a decade. No picture came to mind when he tried to imagine what the skinny teen could have morphed into. Would’ve he kept long, flexible limbs like his older counterpart, or turned into a human brick like his foster father? Or maybe he had become so average, or overweight, that he had to hang his cape for good. The last shreds of his mind spared from cynicism and bitterness wished Jason Todd had settled down with someone nice and left the night behind. 

There was a dry chill in air, dancing on the skin and in the throat just before snowfall. It had that smell, too, of floating ice and white mornings. The softness of upcoming death. Which was unusual in June. John fought against his lighter for a few seconds, the silver zippo producing nothing more than a single spark. Hunched over his closed hands, his breath formed thick clouds of mist. The cloud grew bigger, more opaque, enveloping his silhouette like a shroud. 

A simple trick of light and stolen smoke pellets, which left his attacker in the middle of an empty alley. Learned from the best escape artists in town. He heard the weapon -a baseball bat?- hit the manhole cover just as he slid underneath, in the smelly darkness of Gotham’s underground network. Unable to summon a single flame, John resorted to the modern beacon of his phone to navigate the tunnels, ignoring the loud thumps above head. Probably some deranged thugs, as were common in the city. He felt no shame in slithering away from the fight, but questioned his ingenuity, waist-deep in liquids best not mentioned in good company. 

“Fancy finding you here, Constantine,” spat a metallic voice, impossible to locate. “It’s almost as if you were following me.”

“I swear I was just running away from trouble this time. Not my fault there’s a bat under every stone in this goddamn place,” he tried to joke back, teeth clattering a bit. 

There was some movement in the water, but the pale blue light of his extended phone showed nothing safe from dirty walls. Somehow, the voice still seemed closer as Red Hood spoke again after an eerie moment of silence. Constantine noted that his magic once again hit record low levels.

“Why are you here? Not only in the sewers, but in Gotham.” A small ominous click echoed in the dark.

“In ten days, if I haven’t finished my deed, my right hand will fall off. Now, I like it for a various number of reasons which you can relate to, lonely nights included, and I’d appreciate it stayed in place,” he answered truthfully, rising his arm to show the single black hair tied around his wrist. 

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Did Red Hood have insulated pants or something? Pins and needles coursed through John’s legs, not to mention his more vulnerable parts.

“I am looking for a woman who ran away from her family, and my location spell could only trace her until she came to the flat from last time. Are you bloody satisfied or are you waiting for my balls to get frostbite?”

“Why are you here?”

“Oh for Pete’s- I just told you! As for here, here, well I’m taking the French leave from someone who wants my skin to hang in their living room. Or my wallet, I didn’t exactly stop to ask.”

Constantine waited for an answer which never came. As silently as he had come, Red Hood had gone. Magic came back with a sudden rush as something hit the pavement with enough strength to make rubble fall on John’s head. Debating whether or not wandering in the iced waters would be wiser than climbing back up, he didn’t have much time to think as a wave of pure horror unfurled all around him. Flashes of bright green light pulsed through his head with intense fury, feeling as if his third eye was being ripped open. He was vaguely aware of water now splashing against his chin, forming spikes which melted almost instantly before reforming again. 

Instinct, more than anything else, pushed him to frantically look for a ladder. He had to get out. Shadows closed in on him as his phone shattered. His hands gripped the slimy concrete in despair, breath bouncing all over in quick inhales, when he finally found the first metallic bar. The psychic attack had stopped, but the air was still charged with tendrils of aggressive energy. 

Hauling up the manhole cover with his shoulders, John fought tears as he finally found the wet asphalt of Gotham’s streets. Glass shards covered most of it, some of them looking like shattered marbles more than windows. Most lamp posts had been destroyed as well. Fuming in the middle of the road, Red Hood’s body laid immobile. Whatever had provoked the magic explosion, it was gone. 

_She_ was gone, John started to suspect. And so was, once again, any trace of magic. __

_ _“Hey mate, still alive?” he asked, poking Red Hood’s shattered shoulder plate with his shoe._ _

_ _“Fuck… you.”_ _

_ _Helping the massive man to get up and listening to his weak instructions to get him to a safehouse was not part of Constantine’s plan. Running away and learning how to use his left hand in advance was. What convinced him was Red Hood’s icon, broken in half, revealing the face of a much younger man than he had imagined. Barely a man, even, just a breath short from his twenties, or perhaps a couple years older than that; radiating tainted energies from the attack. Oozing thick black drops in the stray light, a large wound at his side did not bode well. _ _

_ _Laying Red Hood down on a ratty couch, John quickly traced a sigil to stop the hemorrhage. Everyone gifted with adequate abilities would be able to sense him, but it didn’t matter at the moment. Well-versed in bright explosions and other kinds of recreative demon-slaughtering, his knowledge in the fine arts of healing knew some obvious limits, he found out as his patient looked worse and worse under his ministrations. _ _

_ _“_Od ton leef niap,_” he intoned in the way Zatanna would have, for lack of better option._ _

_ _Under that dark red domino he felt he owed the kid to keep, Hood’s traits relaxed slightly and his breathing evened. As inappropriate as it was given the circumstances, John couldn’t help but feel as if he had seen that face recently. There was no time to waste as his work was far from finished on the large gaping wound torn under the young man’s ribs. As far as he could tell, no lethal damage, but he had lost his fair share of blood. _ _

_ _As he gently raising his damp head to check for damage, a small earpiece fell off. Bringing it to his own ear, John jumped when a very clear woman’s voice boomed right into his skull. Not that it was too loud, but so omnipresent he felt like tearing off the damn thing right away. Her calm tone dissuaded him._ _

_ _“How is he?”_ _

_ _“Miss I- I found him and-” he stuttered, unsure whether or not he should be talking with her at all._ _

_ _“Breathe with me,” she said, confusing it for panic. He still followed her pace. “I saw you and Red Hood via CCTV, were you able to stabilize him?”_ _

_ _“Yes. But who-”_ _

_ _“Not now, John. Is he responsive?”_ _

_ _“No.” He settled for short answers, as if he just called an emergency line. “His domino is still on, though. Didn’t know if it was trapped.”_ _

_ _“Good call, it is. Find the catch inside the left lens, right next to the nose bridge. Push it twice in and once down. Then tell me if his eyes are opened.”_ _

_ _Obeying the mysterious voice, Constantine gasped as two immense blue eyes instantly turned in his direction, but saw right through him. The dilated pupils ate up most of the color in two black pits of pure terror. The lady sounded very concerned about that fact, asked him all sorts of questions, few of which he had an answer to. No, he hadn’t seen any gas or scarecrows, neither could he find any hit on the head itself, but yes the hood had been shattered. _ _

_ _“Seems to be magic, luv. Maybe a concussion too, but mostly psychic assault.”_ _

_ _“Can you bring him back?”_ _

_ _“I can’t tell for sure,” he answered after a moment of reflexion, then muttered to himself. “I hardly know the bloke, why would I jump into something that dangerous for him?”_ _

_ _“He saved you life twice already,” she provided in that cool, detached tone, right into his ear. “If it’s money you want, name your price. If it’s anything else I can make no promise, but we’ll try to obtain it.”_ _

_ _“Find Carmilla Flores-Watson for me and I’ll even dance a jig at the next JLA meeting,” he grunted, already tracing the arcane symbols around and on the young man’s head. _ _

_ _“I’ll look into it.” She simply answered, faint typing echoing as she spoke. “Thanks, Constantine.”_ _

_ _Hands sticky with blood, the mage slicked his hair back as well as Red Hood’s, with a far gentler gesture. He then moved around to place his knees on each side of the young man’s head, against his padded shoulders, so that he could place his left hand on his upside-down forehead and his right above his own eyes. Sigils made of pure energy appeared around them, turning and changing to adjust to both their frequencies. Bright orange, sparkling like embers at the cores of a firecamp, and faint waves of crimson, dirted with ripples of neon green. _ _

_ _Constantine felt spirits gather around his circles, bored and curious. Even small, local deities poked around, testing the strength of his boundaries. An exiled djinn solidified a few feet away as an old hobo with eyes like a gathering tempest. He extended his benediction to Red Hood’s immobile silhouette, before vanishing once again. Ghosts also circled them, either blessing or cursing him. As their minds increasingly synced, John got bribes of information about the crowd standing outside his pentagram, slowly fading away not to risk having their essence caught in the spell. At last, _Jason_’s mother thanked him, and disappeared as well. _ _

_ _Then everything faded to black. _ _

_ _

_ _***_ _

_ _

_ _00:02. 00:01. Jason closed his eyes. Everything burst into flames. _ _

_ _00:12. Once again he was tied up on the cold concrete. Collapsed lungs hurt like a bitch. Probably missing teeth, from the pounding ache in his jaw. Or maybe a fracture. _ _

_ _00:07. The crowbar kept falling on his limbs. His hair was pulled so hard he heard a rip within his own skin. Everything hurt. Joker laughed and laughed and kept hitting his bruised meat. _ _

_ _00:02. No one was coming. The door was locked. 00:01. Jason closed his eyes. Light exploded all around._ _

_ _00:12. Jason didn’t want to keep hope in his heart, there was no way Bruce knew where he was. Even if he did, it was a 12-hours plane ride, maybe 6 with the batplane. 1 if Superman heard him scream, but he doubted that. This was a warzone, even Superman couldn’t pay attention to every scream. _ _

_ _00:07. He spat in Joker’s face. It felt good. It tore through his nerves with the strength of a jackhammer to smile, but he did. The next hit disconnected sight in his right eye. _ _

_ _00:02. 00:01. Jason closed his eyes. A knock at the door. Fire devoured the room._ _

_ _00:12. Was it Bruce? Did he imagine the knocks at the door? Joker didn’t seem to hear them. The door was locked.   
00:07. All that gathered spit, the hairline fracture in his jaw, the muscle he felt rip inside his cheek, it was all worth that single red blob on Joker’s pale face. The pouding had stopped. _ _

_ _00:03. The door’s handle fell to the ground. 00:02. Jason closed his eyes, he didn’t want to see it. _ _

_ _00:01. “Jason!”_ _

_ _00:12. Joker turned around, shocked. Someone had caught his crowbar. _ _

_ _00:08. The stranger had a small knife up their sleeve. Clever. Jason’s heart sung with each wet sound the blade made when it plunged in the clown’s chest. He was disappointed not to see any blood, though._ _

_ _00:03. The stranger fell to his knees, cradled Jason’s head against his chest. It felt warm, at least the parts of his face which could still feel._ _

_ _00:01. Jason closed his eyes, face pressed against the man’s cigarette-scented coat. This time, the flames didn’t burn. _ _

_ _“Wake up, Jason,” the stranger said, even as fire ate up his clothes and hair. “We need to come back.”_ _

_ _“Save yourself, don’t worry about me… it’s too late.”_ _

_ _00:15. Joker triumphantly kicked his spleen, delighted to hear Jason squeal. The clown then froze, a blooming red spot in the middle of his chest. It was definitely a grappling hook going right through his ribcage. Fired at point blank. _ _

_ _00:10. Batman was hugging him close, carefully petting his hair. _ _

_ _00:02. Jason smiled, and let go. 00:01. No flames this time, but a soft light engulfing them._ _

_ _Soft strands of fair hair tickled his cheekbones, shielded his eyes from the morning. Jason’s hip hurt a bit but nothing comparable to his nightmare. Something soft, warm and heavy rested against his forehead. He struggled against ankylosed muscles to make his arm rise up to brush the blonde locks. The person didn’t react, their breath coming in slow puffs above Jason’s ear. He still found their hand, laying close. They had smoker’s fingers, slightly yellowed and bearing small calluses where the flame sometimes came too close. Before he could reflect too much on it, Jason brought it to his lips, an unusual feeling of gratitude floating in his mind. _ _

_ _His neck started to ache after a while. As reassuring as the presence was, he had no idea what just happened, and why he was in bed with a stranger -with his armor on, that is. Moving them around, he discovered none other than the ratty magus, John Constantine himself. Memories shot through his mind of finding him in a pitch-black place full of water, then seeing the stars above become spears that bore right through his mind. A glass-shattering howl. A woman, apologizing frantically and running away. Numbers, four zeroes. _ _

_ _Constantine was still out cold when Jason came back with some food. He smirked derisively to himself, thinking that might be the very first time he brought breakfast to someone he slept with. Especially one who had painted the whole bedding area in blood. He didn’t dare poking around the arcane symbols, but took reference pictures, just in case. Constantine woke up around Jason’s second pile of a dozen scrambled eggs._ _

_ _“Mornin’ mister wizard,” he said jovially from the kitchen counter, where he sat in nothing but an old tee which might or might not have belonged to Damian in another life, and a pair of sports shorts. “Coffee?”_ _

_ _A low grunt answered him, as well as a raised hand in which he diligently placed a steaming mug. Their fingers overlapped. He felt something stir inside his chest, the corners of his vision bloom with moving colors. A black string dug into his flesh, making it appear paler and puffier. The curse, he remembered. _ _

_ _“No reason to be afraid, mate. ‘S just magic. You got some of mine. ‘T’ll go away soon,” John groaned before abandoning him in favor of the bathroom._ _

_ _Lazily following him, Jason stopped to watch appreciatively as the older man removed his blood-hardened shirt. Nice tattoos. Were they magical, or simply aesthetic, he could only guess. If John hadn’t wanted him to see, he would have closed the door. Blowing on his mug to feel the steam coat his chin, Jason observed in silence. _ _

_ _“Does that mean I can cast spells now?”_ _

_ _“Anyone can cast spells, mate.” Constantine borrowed Jason’s shaving cream without asking, most of the blood now off his skin -but his fingernails still deeply encrusted. “Most people just fail to understand how it works. But yes, you can.”_ _

_ _“Rad. So I just have to speak backwards?”_ _

_ _“Don’t, kiddo.” He now had in his hands a straight razor, a shiny long thing with wooden handles, which he got out of thin air. “You probably know everything there is to know about gun safety, but nothing about magic.”_ _

_ _Sobering up from his unusually giddy mood, he sipped his coffee absent-mindedly, listening to the soft sounds of traditional shaving. Wondering if he should bother with looking presentable himself, or stay in his inside clothes. Sleeping during the night wasn’t among his habits, and seeing natural lights out the window felt surreal. Too much free time on his hands. _ _

_ _“I have questions,” he announced, earning nothing but a small nod. “It seems we are after the same target, a woman going by Dragomira Smith. An alias. What do you know of her?”_ _

_ _By the length of Constantine’s sigh, there was a lot to share. Summer lights didn’t dim quite as much as during the rest of the year, but Jason’s stomach indicated it was well past seven pm when they finally agreed on which links existed between their respective cases. Deciphering John’s accent had taken quite a toll on his patience. As well as reading between the lines of the con-man. Something had happened the night prior John refused to share with him. _ _

_ _“Did we fuck last night?” he ended up asking while stirring a pan of spiced potatoes. A grin crossed his face when he heard the older man choke on his Coke._ _

_ _“No, we didn’t _fuck_, as you so elegantly put it. You were hurt, unresponsive, not to mention the obvious age difference and our past… misunderstandings. It would have been rape.”_ _

_ _“Then what are you hiding? Obviously, you’re ashamed of something. Would’ve been easier if you’d just fallen for my legendary charms.”_ _

_ _“No shame here, love. Saving you from psychic trauma required I link our vital energies together and dive into your mind, however. I saw the moments of your death, being played over and over.” He paused, fiddled with his fork audibly. “My condolences.”_ _

_ _Jason saw nothing else to add to the confession. What John had seen he was already familiar with._ _

_ _“I’m sorry,” the mage still added._ _

_ _“Nothing to be-”_ _

_ _“No, I mean. Mate, I thought you were a zombie! Almost got a friend to take care of your case.”_ _

_ _A full-bellied laugh escaped Jason’s throat at that, surprised by how utterly embarrassed the older man had sounded. He turned around with watery eyes, trying and failing to repeat the word ‘zombie’. Maybe his humor was darker than most people. But a zombie was even more absurd than Tim’s whole existence._ _

_ _“Goodness gracious, and I thought you found my unmasked face repelling. Why a zombie? I’m at the very least vampire material.” He topped the quip with an exaggerated wink, which did not seem to amuse his guest._ _

_ _“Magic is everywhere -well, almost everywhere.” Jason nodded, intrigued, and John continued. “And magi like myself can ‘see’ it, as a gift or as a result of training…”_ _

_ _“I know how magic works, what’s your point?” _ _

_ _“My point is, to anyone who can see it, you look like a walking dead bloke.” He waited for Jason to react, who took extreme care not to. “Though I begin to understand why that might be…”_ _

_ _“No you don’t.”_ _

_ _Constantine didn’t have ice blue eyes, like most of the men Jason was used to have glaring at him with such intensity. Yet, perhaps due to the magic he was now allegedly in possession of, the ghastly flickers in those irises which burned right through him. No cold-blooded rage, heartwrenching disappointment or disinterested disgust, like his brothers would often wear on their faces when looking at him. What Jason saw was both terrifying and fascinating, full of compassion and lacking care all the same. His hair rose along his spine. _ _

_ _“I believe I do.”_ _

_ _Bringing the pan on the counter with more force than intended, Jason turned his back to him once again. A weak ‘yeah, whatever’ went through his teeth as he focused on the meal he was preparing. Some of it had burned at the edges, while they were speaking. He swore. Fucking magicians and the shitton of trouble they always brought. This is why he preferred to work with normal humans. As ‘normal’ as you can find in his line of work, at least._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm publishing all 10k of this because it's been sitting in my WIP folder since March, and publishing it will actually force me to update it! I had 2 betas but I didn't note down their names, please guys if you recognize yourself DM me and I'll add your names.


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